Your Love Is My Drug
by Sparkling Soul
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate a drug ring at a night club, and Sherlock dances to pop music. Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3.


**Your love is my drug**

**Officially written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3, but the actual reason is that the image of Sherlock dancing to Ke$ha simply wouldn't leave me alone, so here you are. Everyone seems to write extremely angsty fics for this challenge but this is apparently the first song I think of when I think of Johnlock. I have issues. **

**You can listen to the song here: ** watch?v=QR_qa3Ohwls**. **

**And to avoid all possible misunderstandings, this post was made by me so I'm not stealing people's ideas: ** post/53367683912/so-im-listening-to-ke-has-your-lo ve-is-my-drug

John was painstakingly drafting a blog post for a case that he should have documented at least three weeks ago when Sherlock's phone pinged with an incoming text.  
"What does it say?" he asked as his significant other leapt up from his sprawled-out position on the couch to read it.  
"Lestrade. I was right, the drug ring is mostly active in that nightclub, but he's not sure the management is actually involved. He wants us to go have a look tonight to find out, undercover obviously."  
"Well," John laughed, "seems like I'm taking you dancing tonight."  
"Be sure to dress appropriately." Sherlock smirked.  
John shot him a glare and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow: "Can't have you go clubbing in one of these ridiculous jumpers, now can we?"  
John huffed, but refused to further acknowledge his lover's taunt about his wardrobe. Sherlock had a point; his usual clothing habits were less than suited for a trendy night club, and he didn't want to stick out. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen. It was 7.30pm, which left him with enough time to get some food into the both of them before they had to get ready. He saved his draft and shut down his computer before heading over to the kitchen, bracing himself for what he would find in the fridge. The inventory was short: milk, a human liver, two beers, half a pack of cheddar, a Tupperware containing what seemed to be dead scarabees, three carrots, a tube of burn cream, and -aha!- a pot of risotto Angelo had graciously given them the night before.  
John put the risotto in the -mercifully body-parts-free- microwave and set the timer for ten minutes before quickly setting the table.  
"We'll have to go shopping tomorrow." he told Sherlock, who hummed noncomittally. John sighed; he knew pertinently there would be no "we" involved in the task of preserving them from imminent starvation.  
When the microwave pinged, announcing that dinner was ready, John spooned the risotto onto two plates and started to turn around to go set them on the kitchen table. However, he was stopped in his progress by a warm body against his back and a gentle nuzzling at his neck.  
"Do I really have to eat that?" Sherlock breathed into his ear.  
"Yes you do." John answered sternly, leaning back into his lover's embrace. "We might very well be up all night and clubbing is much more exhausting than tinkering with experiments around the flat; you'll need the energy."  
Sherlock glared at the food as if it had personally offended him, but made no further protests. He let go of his lover and sat down at the table, allowing John to set a plate down in front of him. They ate in companionable silence, feet occasionally rubbing against each other under the table.  
Miraculously, Sherlock emptied his plate, probably having accepted the sense in John's earlier statement. He then stood up and headed for the bathroom, leaving it to John to clean up, as usual.  
By the time John was finished, Sherlock was already out of the shower. John hopped into it himself and quickly washed up before heading for the bedroom to attempt to find suitable clothes. The room was empty, which meant Sherlock was dressed up already and was probably going through the case file one more time in the living room. John stood in front of the wardrobe for a few minutes, trying to determine what he should wear, before deciding upon jeans, a simple black t-shirt, his old army boots and a leather jacket from his pre-army motorcycling years.  
He stepped out into the living room and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, browsing through the file. John's mouth went dry, and he licked his lips, allowing his gaze to travel down Sherlock's tantalising frame. His lean upper body was encased in a blue t-shirt that John recognised as one of his own, though he didn't wear it anymore because it dated from his uni days, and the combined added muscle from army training and weight he had put on since coming back to England meant it didn't fit him anymore. However, it did wonders for Sherlock, who had also put on some muscle and fat under John's care. As Sherlock was considerably taller than John, there were a few inches of bare skin visible between the hem of the t-shirt and the waistband of his low-slung jeans. And those jeans... They were a miracle in themselves. Obscenely tight, seemingly stitched onto his body, they hugged Sherlock's ridiculously plush arse and made his long, long legs seem to go on for miles on end.  
Having heard John entering the room, Sherlock shifted his weight from one leg to the other, making the muscles of his buttocks flex under the denim.  
"Tease." John breathed huskily, and Sherlock looked back at him and winked.  
Momentarily startled, John actually gasped: "Sherlock! Are you wearing eyeliner?"  
"I believe the technical term is "guyliner"." Sherlock corrected cheekily. "Don't you like it?"  
John stepped closer and grabbed his lover by the hips: "Of course I like it, Sherlock, your eyes!"  
Already emphasised by the blue colour of his t-shirt, Sherlock's improbable eyes looked even more gorgeous framed by the black makeup, and John would have made ridiculous analogies with tropical oceans and limpid lagoons if he hadn't been certain that Sherlock (not to mention himself) would never take him seriously ever again.  
Sherlock righted himself up and twisted in John's grasp, scrutinising him attentively.  
"You don't look half bad yourself, you know." was the verdict, accompanied by something very much akin to a leer. "You really should wear this more often, instead of those unflattering jumpers that hide everything."  
"Yeah, no, not something I'd be comfortable wearing every day. But I'm glad you approve. Now, don't we have a drug ring to bust?"  
Instead of answering like a civilised person, Sherlock ducked his head for a scorching kiss that left John dizzy and panting, and swiftly marched out the door.

By the time John was out on the street, Sherlock had already succeeded in hailing a cab. He held the door open for John and slipped inside after him, giving the directions to the cabbie. The ride took a mere ten minutes, which Sherlock spent tapping away on his phone, no doubt texting Lestrade to decide upon the procedure. When they arrived at the club, Sherlock was out of the cab in no time, leaving it to John to pay, as per usual.  
"Lestrade and Donovan are stationed in the alley behind the club, accompanied by a deployment of incompetent police agents. We're supposed to get in the club and subtly try to collect evidence and clues. We know the bartender is involved in the traffic, and we have someone willing to testify against him, but I suspect the owner might be active in the ring as well, and probably more predominantly so. However, I have no proof, and Lestrade insists that is essential. Once I have it, I'm to text Lestrade and they'll arrest the woman." Sherlock told John, and the good doctor's internal radar pinged To the casual observer, Sherlock might have seemed to be his usual confident, snarky self, but John, though far from having his lover's deductive capacities, knew the detective much, much better than any casual observer. Sherlock's voice was just a tiny bit less boisterous than usual, and his right hand was trembling slightly against the small of John's back. Something was off.  
John turned to face Sherlock, and clasped his hand between his own: "Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
"Ridiculous, John, why would something be wrong?" was Sherlock's automated response.  
John didn't answer, but his stern gaze clearly spelled out "Don't try to fool me, Sherlock, I know you better than that."  
Sherlock sighed in resignation: "A cocaine ring, John. It has bad associations for me, and probably for you too. It reminds me of a period of my life I'd rather not be reminded of, and you don't exactly make a secret of your disapproval and worry about my old habits."  
"Of course I'm worried, Sherlock, but I trust you. You've been clean for years now, and I know it hasn't always been easy for you, but you've been strong enough to resist it, and I know you can stay as strong." John assured him, squeezing his hand.  
"And yet, the idea that I might relapse is far from ludicrous. I don't easily rid myself of my addictions."  
"And thank god for that." John stated, standing on tiptoes to gently kiss his lover's mouth. Sherlock smirked against his lips:  
"Are you comparing yourself to a highly life-threatening and addictive hard drug?" he asked disbelievingly.  
John blushed slightly: "Well, yes. That, and the Work, and the violin, and possibly your obsession for bees."  
Sherlock chuckled: "Fine, I can see the sense in comparing my feelings for you to other things I am highly passionate about and dependent on. The analogy is, however, a bit askew. You're far more important to me than any of these things could ever be, John."  
A warm glow of happiness filled John's chest; Sherlock's open declarations of affection, rare as they were, always had that effect on him.  
"So I'm a particularly good kind of drug, then?" he asked cheekily.  
"You're an idiot, that's what you are." Sherlock huffed, and tugged at his hand to make him stand in the queue stretching out from the entrance to the nightclub.

Inside the club, it was dark and loud, with stroboscopic lights flashing and a heavy beat that made John's bones thrum. Sherlock determinedly pushed through the crowd in the direction of the bar, and John followed him, hindered by his smaller stature and higher regard for other people's toes and other appendages.  
At the bar, Sherlock leant over the counter to get the bartender's attention:  
"Hey, I'd like to talk to the manager, if that's possible." he asked, and John admired the precise mix of friendliness and dominance he was displaying to ensure he would be taken seriously.  
"What for?" the man asked, quite gruffly.  
"I'm looking for a job."  
"Hm. Well I don't think we're hiring, but I'll call the boss."  
He stuck his head through the door behind the bar and yelled:  
"Linda! There's a bloke who wants to see you, looking for a job he says!"  
The woman who emerged from the adjacent room did not even remotely resemble the idea John had of a drug dealer. Strawberry blonde hair, obviously dyed, falling to her shoulders in a straight curtain; golden earrings, a tight red blouse, tailored trousers and black pumps: clothes that were professional without sacrificing the sexiness people no doubt expected from a woman who owned a night club. John didn't miss the way her eyes lit up when she spotted Sherlock, and how she gave him an appreciative look-over as she leant over the bar, closer than was strictly necessary to be heard, even over the loud music.  
"Looking for a job, are you?" she asked, her mouth practically against Sherlock's ear.  
Sherlock flashed her a bright smile: "Yes I am, and even more assiduously so now that I know I might have the chance of working for such a lovely woman."  
John rolled his eyes internally at Sherlock's flirtation, but it seemed to work, as the woman batted her eyelashes and smiled lasciviously.  
"And what could you do for me?" The double entendre was about as subtle as a horde of stampeding elephants.  
"I'm a deejay." Sherlock beamed, and John had to resist the urge to snort. Sherlock, a deejay? As far as John was aware, he knew about as much about contemporary music as the average jellyfish.  
The woman placed a hand on Sherlock's arm: "Ah, I'm sorry, dear, but I'm afraid we already have a fixed deejay. But give me your number, and I'll call you if we ever need a replacement."  
"That's a pity." Sherlock sighed dejectedly, "But yes, thank you, I think I'll do that. It's better than nothing, right? Do you have a pen?"  
She handed him one, and he clicked it on the countertop before jotting down a number -obviously fake- on a beer carton.  
The woman pocketed it and flicked her hair: "Right, well, I'll be in touch! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm a busy woman." and she was off, smiling at Sherlock one more time over her shoulder.  
Sherlock didn't notice; he was already frantically typing away on his phone. John read over his shoulder.

Owner involved. You'll find the bags of drugs in a secret compartment underneath the countertop of the bar, and latex gloves with traces of the drug in the bin. The bartender might testify against her. -SH

"Amazing." John breathed into Sherlock's ear.  
"Disappointingly easy." the detective countered, but he smiled nonetheless at the praise.  
"She was just divorced from a rich husband: she was wearing expensive clothes and jewellery that she wouldn't have been able to afford on the earnings of a barely emerging night club, and there was a tan line from a recently removed wedding ring on her finger. She was used to a wealthy lifestyle and couldn't bear to lose it so she got involved in the drug ring in a successful attempt to make more money. The sound the pen made on the countertop gave the secret compartment away, and her nail polish was slightly smudged, something latex does to certain brands of nail polish, as if often the case with Molly's. She dyes her hair but lets the roots show; similarly, she was careful enough to use gloves when handling the merchandise, but not enough to dispose of them appropriately. As for the bartender, he fancies her, as was made obvious by the jealous look he shot me when I flirted with her, but he also hoped a relationship might get him a share in the club, because he addressed her with a familiarity that seems a bit out of place for a mere employee. That means he's self minded enough to testify against her if it's in his benefit, which it will be."  
"Brilliant!" John beamed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him:  
"Mere observation, John."

He turned on his heel and took John's hand, pulling him through the crowd in the direction of the door. But as the heavy bass changed to an upbeat electronic intro, he stopped abruptly in his tracks. Startled, John looked up at his lover, only to find him smirking predatorily down at him. Sherlock winked and grabbed John's hips, pulling him flush against him.  
"Sherlock, what the-" John started, but before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock was dancing enthusiastically and decidedly seductively against him. And when the singer started singing, John recognised the song, having heard it a few times in cabs and supermarkets, and his penny dropped.  
"Maybe I need some rehab or maybe just need some sleep, I've got a sick obsession, I'm seeing it in my dreams." Sherlock was singing along in his ear, hips undulating against John's lower stomach. John was astonished; he'd never taken Sherlock one for dancing, and he never in a million years would have imagined he would not just recognise, but actually know the lyrics to a pop song.  
He was still debating whether he should be mortified, amused or aroused when Sherlock flung his head back and, arms swaying above his head, ground his hips against John's to the chorus of "Because your love, your love, your love is my drug!" Aroused it was then, and John let his hands drift down Sherlock's back to grab his arse with both hands and pull him closer, if that was even possible, and started dancing in earnest.

By the door, on her way to arrest the club owner, Sally Donovan stopped dead in her tracks and elbowed her superior: "What the fuck?! Lestrade, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"  
Greg followed her line of sight and gaped quite unattractively: "Is that...?"  
Sally giggled helplessly: "Oh my god, I'd never have thought the freak could dance like that!"  
"That's hardly dancing, it looks more like something entirely less appropriate to me - what the fuck is John even doing with his hands?!"  
"I don't think I want to know, I -oh!"  
On the dancefloor, Sherlock had turned around in John's grip and, neck deliciously stretched out and head resting against John's shoulder, was now insistently grinding his plush, denim-encased arse into very interested parts of his lover's anatomy. John's hands were gripping at his hipbones, his mouth hot against the sensitive skin underneath his ear, and Sherlock reached back to lock his arms around John's neck and tilted his head to the side in obvious invitation. John took the hint and covered his mouth with his own in a deliciously filthy kiss that soon had them both on the verge of moaning.

As a girly giggle announced the end of the song, the spell broke, and John realised they had been behaving themselves in a manner that was not exactly appropriate for a public location, even if it was a night club. He also had a rather large problem that needed to be solved as soon as possible, and Sherlock seemed to be in the same situation.  
"Home?" he murmured into Sherlock's ear, but the gorgeous git drawled "I've got a better idea." before grabbing his hand and pulling him through the crowd, away from the exit, in the direction of the back of the club.  
"Where are they going?" Sally asked, but as she spotted Sherlock opening the door to the gents and pulling John inside, she understood.  
"Are you fucking kidding me? We're on a case for god's sake!"  
Inside the loo, Sherlock was unceremoniously shoving John inside a bathroom stall, and locked the door behind them. John knew he should have protested, but apparently his adrenaline addiction didn't exclude the thrill of semi-public sex, because his blood was singing in his veins and his cock was rock hard and throbbing. Besides, when had he ever been able to resist Sherlock?  
All thoughts of protesting definitively fled his mind when Sherlock dropped to his knees and deftly opened John's fly, pulling his jeans and pants a few inches down his thighs. He looked up at John through his lashes before flicking his tongue lightly against the head of John's cock, eliciting a strangled moan. He slid his lips along John's shaft and licked an insistent stripe along the throbbing vein on its underside, then unexpectedly took him in to the root and swallowed around him. John had to try really hard not to scream, and tangled his fingers in his lover's hair in a way that must not have been exactly painless. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, though, as he kept enthusiastically bobbing his head up and down John's cock, humming something John's frazzled brain took a while to recognise. When he did, he giggled breathlessly:  
"I will never understand how you even know that song, Sherlock."  
His lover didn't offer an explanation, but John wasn't complaining, because he thought he might do something drastic if Sherlock stopped what he was doing. John was so on edge it took only a few more slick, wet pulls before he was hissing "Sherlock, oh, Sherlock" and coming copiously down his lover's throat, legs trembling and hands pulling at thick black curls. Sherlock licked his lips and looked up at him with a smug smile, and John grabbed his shoulders to pull him up:  
"Your turn, you madman."  
Sherlock complied and John sunk to his knees, struggling a bit to pull those impossibly tight jeans down.  
"No underwear? Sherlock, I'm shocked."  
"You like it." Sherlock breathed, and John acquiesced: "Yes, I do."  
John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock, and swirled his tongue around the head, making Sherlock moan in that deliciously deep voice of his.  
Sherlock's hands were gently cradling his head, but John could feel his fingers twitching against his scalp, a telltale sign of how close he was. Consequently, John sacrificed finesse to efficiency and just took Sherlock as deep as he could, using his hand to stroke the part he couldn't reach. Sherlock grunted, whined, then moaned: "John, I'm-" and shot his load into John's willing mouth. The good doctor swallowed, grimacing a bit at the bitter aftertaste, then rose to his feet, fastening his trousers. Sherlock was trying to make himself presentable too, but John could see that was a lost battle. His hair was sticking up in all directions and his mouth was red and swollen, not to mention the uncharacteristic flush that graced his cheekbones.  
He hugged his lover close and whispered: "Home, now." and Sherlock hummed in agreement.

They headed for the exit, where, to John's surprised displeasure, they were met with Greg and Sally's flabbergasted faces. Greg looked both amused and disapproving, and Sally seemed to oscillate between disgust, disbelief, and unadulterated glee at the possibilities stretching out in front of her.  
"Did you just...?" she asked, and John blushed furiously.  
"Engage in intercourse in a bathroom stall? Yes, Donovan, surely that must be obvious even to you." Sherlock sneered, and before anyone could make any further comment, he ushered John out onto the street. He looked back at the inspectors over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow: "Don't you have a dangerous drug dealer to arrest?"

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